


Nameday

by Louhetar



Series: Jonmund Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Culture, Drabble, Established Relationship, Folklore, Free Folk Jon, Gentle Kissing, Husbands, M/M, Real North, Talking, Tumblr Prompt, fireplace, free folk, ghost - Freeform, prompt, short form, talking by a fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 09:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20356123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louhetar/pseuds/Louhetar
Summary: A prompt I got on Tumblr to write about a birthday. Tormund and Jon talking cuddling next to a fire. Softe shit basically. Takes place in the same universe as "Get Ready For This"





	Nameday

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first ever time answering a prompt and I'm so very excited because I could pull a lore slut on this one.

“When is your name day?” Jon asks one night when they’re sitting beside each other by the fire. Ghost is snoring softly, wrapped around his side, as sparks from the fire fly into the crisp night air.

“Name Day? What’s that?” Tormund murmurs, stoking the fire lazily, and turning to Jon, curious what kind of new southern bullshit he’s come up with. Seriously, southerners and complicating things…

“Name day, as in the day when you’re born and named,” Jon replies amused, sensing that The Free Folk might celebrate this differently.

“You mean that you name children on the day they’re born?” He’s really intrigued now and giving him full attention.

“Yes? You don’t? I was born on the 14th day of Blōtmōnaþ so it’s my name day,” he chuckles.

Tormund just gives him a confused look. “Blōtmōnaþ?”

“Yes? The blood month.” Jon starts to feel a bit silly, as if he’s missing something.

“I was born on the 1st day of Einmánuður,” say Tormund, understanding that their people must calculate the year differently when Jon shoots him a confused look equal to his own earlier one. “It’s one week before the spring equinox,” he supplies, hoping to help.

Jon’s brows furrow even harder than normal when he’s looking at him thinking. Tormund chuckles at his husband’s expression.

“That’s… ugh, 14th of Hrēðmonaþ, the third month,” he finally says and instantly scoffs at the funny look Tormund sends him.

“You kneelers always have to make everything different, don’t you?” he teases and pats Jon’s shoulder softly.

“I’m no kneeler… not anymore,” Jon murmurs and nuzzles his face into his partner’s neck for warmth.

Tormund’s expression softens from teasing to gentle. “Of course not, my sweet Crow.” And he puts his arm around the smaller man, breathing softly into his long hair.

After a moment he continues, “We do not name our children until they’re at the age of 2. No sense to, with how many of them don’t survive the cold and famine. So to answer this, no, we don’t have name days. We have birthdays instead.” He whispers sadly, “We lost so many children to the cold and the White Walkers…”

Jon gazes up at his husband. “That’s in the past. We’re here, we’re alive. And so many children got born in the tribe in the past months,” he says softly and squeezes Tormund’s hand, his thumb rubbing over the tattoo marking him as Jon’s.

“But you’re right, I never saw anyone calling newborn children by names. I should pay more attention to our people’s customs,” he adds, gazing in the darkness beyond the ring of light their fire gives them.

Tormund looks down on him and his heart aches at how Jon just labeled Free Folk as theirs, as his people, without even noticing. He loves the smaller man so fiercely he thinks one day his heart will burst with it.

Their clan, made up of different Free Folk tribes, has long since adopted Jon as their own. They even gave him his own name. No one calls him a Snow, Stark, or Targaryen. Instead, they call him Jon Red-Eyed in reference to Ghost and his warging.

Jon’s gaze moves to his face, searching, after the long pause between them.

“What is it?”

His answer is the softest, kindest kind kiss he can imagine, just lingering there, not deepening. Tormund wants to sob in it. He wants to thank the Old Gods for letting them survive The Others and all the meaningless wars of the South, sothat they could be here together and safe.


End file.
